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How I found the poets and how I left them: A librarian’s apology for bibliography The Harvard community has made this article openly available. Please share how this access benefits you. Your story matters Citation Stoddard, Roger E. 2016. How I found the poets and how I left them: A librarian’s apology for bibliography. Harvard Library Bulletin 25 (2), Summer 2014: 20-36. Citable link https://nrs.harvard.edu/URN-3:HUL.INSTREPOS:37363341 Terms of Use This article was downloaded from Harvard University’s DASH repository, and is made available under the terms and conditions applicable to Other Posted Material, as set forth at http:// nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:HUL.InstRepos:dash.current.terms-of- use#LAA How I Found the Poets and How I Lef Tem: A Librarian’s Apology for Bibliography Roger E. Stoddard Te ninety-ffh George Parker Winship Lecture, delivered in the Forum Room, Lamont Library, October 11, 2012, on the occasion of the publication of A Bibliographical Description of Books and Pamphlets of American Verse Printed from 1610 through 1820, compiled by Roger E. Stoddard, edited by David R. Whitesell (University Park, Pennsylvania: Published by Te Pennsylvania State University Press for the Bibliographical Society of America, 2012).1 [Editor’s note: Tis monumental publication and achievement received the Modern Languages Association Bibliography Prize in 2015.] I n October 18, 1962, in this room I spoke in public for the first time. It was a regional meeting of the Bibliographical Society, William Jackson Ohad recommended me as a speaker, and President C. Waller Barrett gave his assent. So I came up from Providence, where I was employed by the Brown University Library, to speak on “C. Fiske Harris, Collector of American Poetry and Plays.” In the summer before, I prepared at the John Carter Brown Library, where staf delivered to me bundles of correspondence, never before untied, from the papers of John Russell Bartlett (1805–1886). Bartlett’s career intersected with Harris’s from his bookselling days in New York City through his seniority at the Brown mansion as the family’s librarian. He would be succeeded in that ofce by George Parker Winship, in whose honor this lecture series is named. Robert Metzdorf, editor of the Society’s Papers, grabbed my manuscript and published it in volume ffy-seven (1963), supplementing, in a way, my article on “Oscar 1 Roger Stoddard thanked William Stoneman, Florence Fearrington Librarian of Houghton Library, for introducing him as the ninety-ffh Winship lecturer, and he reminisced about introducing sixty- three lecturers in the series when he managed it. He dedicated the lecture “To my bosom buddy Marcus A. McCorison,” who was not able to attend. Te lecture script was issued privately, with other pieces, in A Fall of Reason (Le Cirque du Livre, 2012). 20 How I Found the Poets and How I Lef Tem Wegelin, Pioneer Bibliographer of American Literature,” which he had published in the preceding volume. So, what’s going on here? A bio-bibliography of a bookseller responsible for some sixty publications largely bibliographical, among them the frst bibliographies of American plays, American fction, and American poetry. Ten, a thick account of a forgotten but major book collector in a unique feld, linking him up with his only predecessor and with the scholars and booksellers of his day, both here and abroad. But it’s not the real thing, is it? Just poking around on the periphery of something: the real thing is early American poetry. So, you need to learn the limits: whose poetry, when? We’re talking poetry written in what is now the United States, starting at the beginning with Newes from Virginia (1610) by R. Rich, Gent., and ending with several undateable (by me) pamphlet poems that may have been printed about 1820. But why your interlocutor would begin his studies with a bibliographer and a book collector, signals where he is coming from. As many of you know, I am from that suite of rooms around William Jackson’s ofce on the Yard-end of the ground-foor corridor of Houghton Library opposite Philip Hofer’s ofce and his Graphic Arts study room. Houghton Library was designed from the beginning, you see, to accommodate both the head and the heart of the book: Jackson with his intellectual history, analytical bibliography, and the creation and completion of author collections, and Hofer with his arts of the book from the manufacture and decoration of paper to the layout of pages and the covering of books, always intriguing with the artists from Dürer to Picasso. And I entered Jackson’s ofces straight from Goodspeed’s Book Shop on Beacon Street, and Goodspeed’s directly from my dormitory room at Brown University where I maintained the stock of old books I sold in partnership with Jay (John G.) Blair—who would become father of Ann Blair, queen of Book History and herself an alumna of the Houghton Library book stack where she held her student job. In my boyhood, books accumulated around me, and I would read in some of them, but I had no focus until I discovered Sherlock Holmes. I resolved to read all the stories, but also everything else written by their creator, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and that sent me on a quest for books. I do not think I ever saw in those days a frst edition by Conan Doyle, but American reprints would turn up in Boston book stocks, and I could aford them. George Gloss had just bought the Brattle Bookshop, and he treated me like an adult customer. Without his help and encouragement I could not have gotten very far—with Conan Doyle or with books in general. For a while I fell under the spell of Dagobert D. Runes and his Philosophical Library. You could order books by mail, English translations of exotic fgures such as J. P. Sartre. Once I chose Corydon, André Gide’s defense of homosexuality, a book I would not forget. Much later, as a curator, I would buy for Harvard the 1923 N.R.F. reprint from the Phoenix Bookshop in Greenwich Village (number 225 of 500 copies hors de Roger E. Stoddard 21 commerce), and I was surprised to fnd prior printings during my bi-annual library book acquisitions tour of the Paris antiquarian booksellers in 1977: at Blaizot’s one titled C.R.D.N. from Bruges, 1911, one of twelve copies printed privately, and just around the corner at Coulet et Faure another private printing from Bruges, 1920, revised and titled Corydon, #19 of 21 copies. So, thanks to Runes and my boyish curiosity, Harvard can show you the whole story of Gide’s most obscure book. It was not until my junior year at Brown that books intruded in my life again when Jay Blair challenged, “Let’s go into the book business and fnd a Fanshawe!” We got into the book business soon enough—we each contributed $50 to our acquisition fund, and we drove around the North Shore and found an antique dealer who had just bought a household, and who was glad to slough of the books for the money we had. Fanshawe, no way! As Jay knew, and I was to fnd out, it was Hawthorne’s anonymously published frst book, known for a rarity since the late nineteenth century. If W. A. White had not given the book to Harvard back in 1917, I never would have seen a copy. As we packed and unpacked I noticed some books on behavioral psychology I thought my professor might like the library to buy, so I trundled them into the library and made our frst sale. Now when you go into the book business you depend on your experience as a collector, on the goodwill and conversation of established dealers, and on your reference library of bibliographies and catalogs. For instance, when John Kohn, the foremost dealer in American literature, showed me a pamphlet called Noël, I could identify it as a poem composed by Longfellow for his friend Agassiz to accompany a gif of wine and printed in only six copies. (I had been reading the 1924 auction catalog of the Stephen L. Wakeman collection.) John ofered me a job—they all ofered you a job in those days. And when I spotted a copy of Will’s Wonder Book in the stock of a book scout downtown in Providence, I knew that it was a real fnd! Only the second copy to surface of a book only recently discovered to contain several stories by Louisa May Alcott. It was known to me because I subscribed to Antiquarian Bookman, and I had bought and scanned a copy of the frst volume of Bibliography of American Literature, just published in 1955. We’ll come back to BAL, so-called, and Alcott, but I want to tell you about some bibliographies that made money for me. First there was Lyle Wright’s bibliography of American fction published from 1774 until 1850. In my time you could fnd the cheap paperback fction of the 1840s—remember Te Black Avenger of the Spanish Main?—in places where they didn’t care for it and sell it to librarians who cared a good deal. Ten there was Oscar Wegelin’s bibliography of early American poetry published in 1930. It was a fabulous achievement, but it was so far out of date that you could fnd lots of pamphlets and broadsides “unrecorded by Wegelin,” as you would brag when you ofered them for sale.